Headstrong in Tuscany

by Fay Henson

  ‘But surely if they knew that a lot of the money came from Vico, they’d make up, you know, build bridges.’

  ‘No.’ Joe said firmly.

  ‘We can’t say anything, we can’t do that. We don’t know what went on, so it might not be as simple as that, and I’ve said we’d give his money anonymously like he’s asked.’

  ‘I might not totally agree with you, but I see your point,’ I said.

  We continued walking along arm in arm together through the lantern-lit streets without saying anything else, both of us alone with our own melancholic thoughts.

  In my room, Joe poured coins and notes out of his trouser pockets onto the bedside table.

  ‘Look at this.’ Under the warm coloured light of the table lamp shone heaps of euro coins and notes.

  ‘It’s a good job we’re honest people,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it would be so easy not to put this money into the collection.’

  Joe glared at me; it was a look I’d never seen come from him before.

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Only joking!’ And I was, honestly.

  There had to be something like a hundred or two hundred euros, who knows, except it was an amazing sight. Joe scooped the lot into the bedside table drawer.

  ‘We can count it all tomorrow.’

  I hadn’t noticed again that I’d received some messages during the evening and there was also a voice recording from Dad which put me on edge straight away. Joe was trying to tune in to a radio station on his phone, so I laid on the bed making myself comfy before I looked at the messages. I wanted to open the messages I could see had arrived from Zoe and Em first, but I was drawn to listen to Dad’s before anything else otherwise not knowing what he was saying would haunt me right up to the time I pressed the play button.

  Caylin, Dad here. I heard him breathe in and then breathe out with a sigh. Oh, big, giant butterflies. Someone in the group said we should watch the Siena news this evening, which sure enough your mum and I did along with probably nearly all of the hotel’s guests. I was starting to feel sick, of course there was no doubt what they’d seen. We’re both stunned and don’t quite know what to say to you at the moment, but be sure that when we see you the day after tomorrow, we shall be looking forward to speaking to you. Dad.

  I put my phone down next to me and just laid there staring up at the white ceiling. Could they have also seen my mouldy tattoo? The day after tomorrow will be the worst ever day of my life. In the background of my thoughts was an Italian TV programme presenter spouting off about something or another and really getting on my nerves.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Joe moved closer to me and gave me a kiss on my stupid bald head.

  I wiped his kiss off my head and after feeling my strange and warm scalp, I screamed at him.

  ‘Don’t do that!’

  And I turned over onto my stomach squeezing the pillow onto the top of my head to hide myself. Joe didn’t respond except he too sighed, just like my Dad had, and then he sat there and rubbed my shoulders whilst I cried for ages and ages. I think he’d guessed I’d heard from my parents.

  ‘Come on, Caylin,’ he said, ‘it’ll all work out fine, I’m positive of that.’

  ‘You don’t know my dad.’ I said from underneath the pillow.

  ‘No, but don’t forget we’re in this together, I’m right by your side.’

  Hearing Joe say those words lifted my distressed spirits.

  ‘But aren’t you worried about what your parents will say?’

  ‘Not that much,’ he said, ‘besides it’s not forever.’

  He had a point there.

  ‘Have you heard from your friends?’

  That prompted me to pull myself together and sit up on the bed. Joe went and got me some tissue from the bathroom so I could blow my nose. My eyes felt so sore and puffy and I truly hoped they would’ve calmed down by tomorrow morning when we go to see the girl’s brother and family.

  ‘Let’s look together,’ I said whilst moving over a bit so Joe could sit next to me with our backs against the wall.

  ‘I’ll open Em’s first as I think she’ll be the one who’ll be the most depressing.’

  Cay, it had to be a bet, right? All that beautiful long, auburn hair, given up first for black gothic and now, bald? Sure you’ve not been smoking something? And that Joe, is he some kind of bad influence on you?? L Looking forward to seeing you in a few days and hopefully without anything else done to yourself, Em x PS. How am I going to stop Zoe now???

  ‘Told you about Em, didn’t I? She’s the worrier.’

  ‘Not a bad thing really, if she helps to keep you under control.’

  I walloped him on his thigh and must’ve caught him just right to accidently give him a dead leg.

  ‘Now for Zoe’s message.’

  Oh Cayeee, what’re u like! J Actually, no need 2 answer...Big question coming, WHY?...no frizzy hair days 4u4 a while then...lookin cool 2gether, u naughty pair! Maybe we can make it a 3some (not in that way JJ), I mean without hair LOL, but that’ll leave dear Em out, so best not. Catch u soon in person, Ciao Zoeeeee xx

  ‘Poor Em, seems like she’s got a busy life trying to keep both of you in check.’

  Yes, in reality that was very true, bless her.

  I couldn’t see that I’d received any message at all from Mum. Butterflies.

  20

  Cake with aliens

  I woke up to our last whole day here in Siena.

  That’s strange, I thought, where had Joe gone? I’d put my arm around behind myself and his part of the bed was cool, not warm as usual from our body heat. I turned over and looked around the room. Perhaps he’d gone to the bathroom. No, that wasn’t it, his shoes had gone.

  I checked the time on my phone, it was only eight fifteen, so why had he gone out? I got up out of bed and opened the window to push back the shutter. I would’ve loved to have climbed back into bed and wait for Joe to get back, but maybe I’d have to wait too long, then it’d be a rush to get out and meet Stefania and the journalist. I decided to go and have a shower.

  Weird or what. I stood underneath the shower and automatically put my hands up to run my fingers through my hair to help the water get to where it was meant to, but it actually scared me to have my hair missing for the first time under the shower. I was sure I could remember hearing someone say at the hairdressers back home, that you should continue to use shampoo because every day there would be a little bit of hair growth.

  So I tipped a tiny bit of shampoo into the palm of my hand and after I’d worked it into a lather, I pretended to wash my hair which was well weird, and making me giggle out loud. Drying was great, because there was nothing to dry.

  After I’d tidied up most of the watery mess in the bathroom I went back to my room where I didn’t remember having had left the door open a smidge. I let out a sigh of relief when I realised it was Joe inside the room.

  ‘Hey Caylin, look at today’s newspaper headline that’s outside the newsagents.’

  He’d taken a photo of it and found it on his phone to show me.

  ‘It basically translates as,’ he said, ‘couple, have heads shaved and raise at least five thousand euros for family of dead girl.’

  Before I could say anything, he added,

  ‘And look at the newspaper,’ he said, ‘ta da.’

  There we were on the front cover and there was an article on page seven all about what we’d done. I took a photo of the two pages so I could send it to the girls back home not for any reason other than to help explain why.

  Hey guys, apols this is going to be a short message; next two photos will help explain even though it’s in Italian. Long story but good reason. Will tell you all when I get back, but now we have to go out and
I’m nervous as hell about seeing Mum and Dad tomorrow, Cay xx

  ‘Let’s count how much money was given to us last night,’ I said eagerly because I just couldn’t get over how people who recognised us from the TV, literally handed their money over. I patted the bed to encourage Joe to sit between me and the bedside table. He pulled out the little drawer and tipped the coins and notes out onto the top and he also opened up Vico’s envelope.

  Joe added up the money, then I recounted just because I like counting money and flicking the coins off the top into my cupped left hand and making small piles coming to ten euros and even one euro piles with the coppers. I’d formed loads of little neat stacks, finally adding those up as well as the notes.

  ‘Go on then,’ he said, ‘what do you make it?’

  ‘Er, well I think it’s, one thousand, three hundred and thirty-six euros, eighty-two cents,’ I said, ‘I think.’

  ‘Hum,’ he said sighing, ‘I made it, one thousand, three hundred and thirty-five euros, eighty cents.’

  I laughed and sighed at the same time and suggested we counted together.

  ‘Right then, one thousand, three hundred and thirty-seven euros, eighty-two cents, that’s it,’ we both agreed.

  ‘Wow, that’s brill,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah and wait til we add it to what was given at the event yesterday,’ I replied.

  We gathered the dosh and found a small plastic bag to put it in and got ready to go and meet Stefania and the journalist.

  ‘Didn’t she say we’re to meet her at that bank, Monti something in the street behind the Piazza del Campo?’ I asked.

  ‘Yikes, it’s nearly eleven now, we’ve got to go or we’ll be late’, he said, ‘yes there.’

  We hurried along the streets together and apologising to groups of Japanese tourists we were having to push our way through, as we didn’t want to be late. I wouldn’t have normally cared about having to dodge the wanderers, but this morning it was imperative we were on time and the Japs were really annoying me with their gigantic cameras hanging around their necks and carrying their tinsy umbrellas to keep the sun off their pale skin.

  ‘There’s the bank,’ I said, ‘what’s the time?’

  ‘Don’t know, let’s just get there.’

  We arrived breathless and sweating and stepped inside the doorway near the bancomat machine away from the crowds and sun. I’d never been inside of an Italian bank before and so we peered in through the huge dark tinted windows. It was ten past eleven meaning we were ten minutes late and I could see Stefania and the journalist were sitting down in where it appeared to be a waiting area; I guessed they were waiting for us to turn up.

  The bank seemed to be really hot on their security. I pushed the door to enter but it was locked. I pushed it again and heard a click when the door unlocked and we could go inside something resembling a big glass cubicle. Then, we had to do the same process through another door until we were finally permitted inside the bank.

  Stefania and the journalist greeted us with big smiles as we went over to join them, where I accidently kicked his camera which he’d stupidly left on the floor and naturally I cringed but he told me not to worry.

  ‘You will be very appy’, the journalist said, ‘when you know how much euros there are.’

  ‘In fact,’ I said looking at what I’d written down, ‘we have one thousand, three hundred and thirty-seven euros, eighty-two cents to put in too.’ I was so excited, I didn’t give him a chance to say the amount they’d collected from yesterday.

  ‘Wait for the total,’ he smiled.

  The journalist took the money from us and went over to queue to speak to a person sitting behind a wooden counter. After around fifteen minutes, he returned with a slip of paper which he showed all of us, where we could quite plainly read that the grand total was an awesome six thousand, five hundred and ninety-one euros, thirty-three cents. I think we were all completely speechless.

  They said that the money was safer in the bank and it would be available when the brother needed it, and even if there were still people who wanted to donate, they could still do that at the bank. They gave us a special piece of paper where the grand total so far was written in massive fancy numbers which we could present to the brother. You couldn’t imagine how happy I was and truly hoped he’d be at home.

  We all left the bank through another set of double doors for which we then had to wait for a green light to allow us to leave. Stefania and the journalist didn’t know precisely where the family lived, so they had to follow me and Joe to the place where we originally saw the girl’s brother and family. And the easiest way for us to remember, was to retrace our footsteps back to the alleyway.

  So there we were again, this time four of us, weaving in and out between the Japanese and sometimes American tourists until finally we were at the entrance to the little slippery alleyway. What would we do if they weren’t home? I was starting to feel apprehensive.

  Thankfully, having reached the bottom of that stinky old lane, we were back out in the warmth of the sun and from where we were, I could see the door of where we had to knock.

  ‘It’s just over there,’ I said pointing in the direction. I’d been hoping that as it was coming up to lunchtime, maybe there was a bigger chance that they’d be home, but it all seemed so quiet.

  Me and Joe stood a little bit back from Stefania and the journalist when the journalist used his right thumb to press the door buzzer. I wanted to look really happy but it was difficult because I felt anxious and wondered how they’d react. After all, his sister had just died and maybe they wouldn’t have wanted our smiling faces and a journalist on their doorstep at such a terrible time. Maybe they wouldn’t want to accept charity. I was having second thoughts and wondered if it wasn’t such a good idea and then it was too late, I heard a woman’s voice come through the speaker.

  The journalist put his face near to the speaker underneath the buzzer and said a few things to it including the mention of mine and Joe’s names, for which the voice said something back, followed by a click as if she’d hung up a phone and cut us off. Then came another click which unlocked the outside door, and the journalist turned round sticking his thumb up signalling to us that all was good. I hadn’t realised up to then, that I’d been holding my breath in anxiety, and letting it out was such a relief.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘ we can go up.’

  We followed Stefania and the journalist up the dark stairs to be met by the wife who said her name was Ariana as she welcomed us all into her small and cosy kitchen-diner. It was possible to hear a man’s and child’s voice in another room and within a few moments, a door opened and they entered the room also. Now that we were quite close to the man, it was easy to see that he was the brother of the dead girl; they both had the same shape and colour blue eyes. Even the little girl’s eyes, her niece had the same resemblance.

  Ariana introduced her husband as Besmir and the little girl was called Nevena. We all shook hands briefly and we were invited to sit down. Fortunately, there were just enough places; four wooden chairs around the square wooden table and there was a settee where me, Joe and Stefania could sit. Little Nevena wanted to sit on her daddy’s lap and I noticed that she wouldn’t look at me and Joe.

  I thought that Besmir had probably sussed why we were all there, especially as photos of me and Joe being hairless had been plastered everywhere, and there we were, sitting on their settee inside their home. Then I wondered that maybe they hadn’t seen the Siena TV news or the newspapers, and they’d no idea about any of it.

  The journalist spoke before anyone else with a kind manner, and even though I hadn’t had a clue what he was actually saying, I could sense that when he was speaking he was thinking about the words he was using for such a sensitive subject. I was studying the expressions on their faces and I didn’t think they knew anything at all about the money raising event. It w
as a complete surprise. The journalist presented the slip of paper from the bank where they could clearly see the amount of money.

  I saw Besmir stretch out his left hand to squeeze Ariana’s hand she was resting on the table, he had tears in his eyes and as I was watching those tears overflow and run down his cheeks, I couldn’t stop myself from crying too.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said rummaging around in my bag for a tissue. Thankfully Stefania found one quicker than I had, and passed it to me where I blotted my eyes and tried to pull myself together. I hated myself for crying; I didn’t even know those people and I must’ve looked pathetic. The last thing they needed was some emotional seventeen year old snivelling in their home. Joe pulled me closer to him and whispered don’t worry in my ear.

  Then the atmosphere completely changed with Ariana, in a stern voice, saying something to Besmir and he was banging his hand on the table. I didn’t think any of us really expected that and all we could do was sit quiet and hoped they’d calm down. That was a horrible couple of minutes.

  Besmir was speaking through his tears and Ariana also crying, was patting little Nevena’s back as she tensely clung to her daddy with her head burying into his shoulder. I desperately wanted to know what he was saying especially about his sister who he kept glancing over to the mantelpiece where there was a photo of her. I could also see another photo which to me looked like them both as children with who must’ve been their parents on a farm or somewhere in their own country because there were some chickens in the background.

  Ariana seemed to relax and regain her calmness and went over to the worktop and brought some cake over to the table which looked home-made, some plates, serviettes, bottles of water and glasses. She cut slices and passed the plates around and poured the water out. It was a huge relief she’d done this because that gesture finally put us all a bit more at ease and the tears stopped, maybe just for a while at least.

  Whilst the journalist chatted to the family, Stefania turned to me and Joe.

  ‘They are so happy for the money,’ she said, ‘they can now pay to take the sister’s body and have the funeral in Albania, they country.’